Whaddya Mean, Like A Lawnmower?

There's nothing like the stress of a little emergency to help you feel like a complete idiot. Or that's how it worked for me, anyway.

After a couple weeks of feeling the all-over body aches and an intermittent cough we both associated with a mild case of the flu, Steve suddenly developed breathing problems. When he couldn't manage about 10 feet without needing to stop to catch his breath, we both decided it was time for an ER visit. His walking was so wobbly that I was not about to try to get him to walk into the ER even with my assistance. Besides, I knew firsthand when you hit an ER and let them know somebody in the car is having breathing problems, they stand up and pay attention.

So I parked right at their door and walked in, requesting help in getting him inside, explaining why. Rather than another able body to assist, I was pointed to the entryway where their really weird wheelchairs are lined up. She added helpfully, "They work just like a lawnmower."

Say what?

Now, I've actually run a lawnmower or ten, many years ago. So long that my memories of their workings are kinda fuzzy. I recall using a pocket knife to scrape the carbon build-up off the spark plug and regapping it before putting it back in place. I know about lifting the little metal band off the plug before doing any work on it, because I value my fingers and other assorted body parts. There are clear memories of pulling and pulling and pulling on a cord in hope that it would finally start, and of some taking gas-oil mix and some not, of cleaning off filters, even sharpening blades. That was where I first learned what a cotter pin was.

Somehow as all that flashed through my mind, none of it seemed remotely relevant. These had no motors, no blades, but were just big slant-backed chairs on wheels that were supposed to move easily to the person needing a ride, then with the person in them heading back into the hospital. I'm used to "normal" wheelchairs with a brake that functions by a lever swinging a bar over onto the back tires to keep it immobile. Nothing like that here. These were stacked each into the back of the one in front, like a row of shopping carts when not in use. Nothing moved. I saw one by itself and thought I could at least move it, but not a chance.

I turned back through the automatic doors to yell, "How the h-e-double-toothpick do I move these things?" No, really, I said "hell". Politeness was gone. Need was paramount. I was full on into vinegar mode to catch my flies.

Just at that moment, the door to the inner sanctum opened and through it came a nurse wheeling one of the chairs my way, simple as anything. I asked her, in the process of loading up Steve and getting him over to triage, how the dang things worked. Turned out it was simple if you knew the trick, impossible if you didn't. Behind the top bar of the chair was a another, little bar running across which, if pushed forward and held next to the top frame of the chair, released whatever immobilized the wheels and let it be easily moved. Incidentally, it is out of the reach of the patient in the chair so they can't move their chair themselves.

Oh. Yeah. Like the extra bar on a lawnmower that works as a dead-man switch when released. Like that. Except it doesn't also act as a brake on the wheels.

As we were heading back in, she pointed, very nicely, to the tape across the top of the bar that explained how to move the two bars together and hold them so the chair would move. I suppose I could brush it all off as it being night and the entryway not being well lit. Not my fault then. But in fact, with the stress of trying to get Steve inside, it never occurred to me that there might be actual instructions on the chair. I simply never thought to look.

And really, isn't "like a lawnmower" just a little devoid of information?

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Addendum: Steve is spending his 2nd night in the hospital. They ruled out a whole bunch of stuff, gave him nebulizer treatments, and kept an eye on him, seemingly content with a blood oxygen level that bounced from 92 to 87. He was to be released this afternoon, but before discharging him they gave him a couple things to lower his blood pressure. Within 10 minutes he was in pain, neck to fingertips, and his BP bottomed out at 70-something over 34. So they are keeping him. Last report was it was finally coming up, helped no doubt by a couple boluses of saline, done on whatever their term is for doing it on a rapid push. We could see the liquid streaming rather then dripping from the bag into the little plastic tube connecting to the IV line. It took just over 5 minutes to empty the 1st 100 ml into him, and the Doc ordered another 150 more right away. Steve's too shaky to risk him getting up, so use your imagination on the consequences of all that liquid influx.

But his numbers are improving, and along with them his mood, despite the Vikes doing, yet again, what we expected them to.